lifeaftr | Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

Entry tags:

Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

Who: Anyone who wants to come by! Tag in, thread with Yuka, thread with each other, whatever you want.
What: Combat training/practice.
When: Sunset, each night for a week minimum.
Where: East end of Islet 1.
Warnings: Possible blood if things get out of hand, implied 80s training montage songs

Yuka chose this location because the ground was level, there was enough space for people to move around, and nobody was really using it for anything else. No wild beasts, no fish people to disturb, no strange psychological effects... the ideal place for people to gather for an hour or two and get some good-natured fighting in. The snow on the ground wasn't ideal, she supposed, but that stuff was everywhere, so they'd just have to make do. It'd probably be snowing during the invasion, anyway.

Each evening, as the sun inched towards the horizon, Yuka set her other tasks aside to come out and wait. Jug of wassail sitting at the edge of the space, bundled in warm clothes and scarves, Yuka paced, wondering if this was really going to be worth the time. Are there people willing to spend that much time to train others when there's so much else that needs doing? Can someone even learn enough to make a difference in this little time? For that matter, are these shadow monsters something you can even fight with your fists? If nothing else, it would be good to do some physical activity in just to get her mind to stop going in circles.

For those who arrived early, there would be less to do, but even just talking through what different fighting skills people had would be useful for later on. Once more people arrived, those who use similar weapons could work together, and those with more combat experience could work with those with less. Or, people who know each other or are curious about each other's abilities could seek each other out for a sparring match.

So: Fight, teach, learn, take breaks, drink, chat. Bring your own wassail if you can - Yuka's can only stretch so far.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You know the worst part of it -

[She’s trying. Fuck, but she’s trying to be nice and understand and all he can manage is a loose, shaky breath like the rustle of leaves over pavement, like the phantom crunch of footsteps behind him.]

[He can’t ever really be clean, now, can he?]

For a long time, I figured I was just crazy.

I think a lot of me still does.

[She’s sorry? Fuck, he’s sorry for saying anything at all.]

...sorry. Probably shouldn’t have said anything.

No, no - I know these kinds of things are real. I've had experience with similar forces in the world I came from. You're not crazy.

[Except the forces she contended with weren't quite the same. They ruined lives, drove people to insanity, stacked the deck in such a way that those born under the influence of the Walled City never had a chance at all. But it was highly localized and, ultimately, had a physical form that could be killed. At it's root, it was a curse that manifested in ways that damaged the psyche.]

[She has no reason not to believe him, either. Why lie about something like this? Tim didn't seem the type to want pity from others and he'd probably guessed by now that if he wanted that he was barking up the wrong tree with Gobbet.]

Do you still lose time like that? Even all the way out here?

[It's fortunate that he has the bottle on hand, now, and that Chara no longer has to carry it all hours of the day. No longer holding him on that tether, though the gesture had less to do with trust, and more with needing to ease the great weight on their shoulders.]

[He's taken them before, shaken them out and swallowed them dry. He lets them rattle as he rolls the bottle between his fingertips: a little orange bottle with the label scratched and torn, with those precious white capsules that are the sole synthetic shield between him and something - far, far worse.]

These help. Just...not always enough.

[Ah, the pills. The ones he took back on Monsun, where she asked if he was sick. This is what he meant.]

Damn. Then...what do we do about it? I mean, usually curses have a physical root that can be destroyed.

[That's right. We. If she's in this now, she's going to fight it. It's the only thing she knows how to do in the face of a curse.]

[At that point, Tim does something incredible.]

[He smiles.]

[It's crooked, wry, self-deprecating, and more than a little bit pained, warping one side of his face and ducking his head and sinking his free hand over his chest to fist at the fabric of his shirt, worn and muddied and stained almost beyond recognition.]

Yeah.

That's kinda the whole point.

[That's the joke. Got a killer punchline, right?]
[ * It's me. ]

[Gobbet looks confused, then realization sets in, followed shortly by exasperation.]

You are the curse? I though you just had it. That complicates things.

[She scratches at her cheek absently, thinking of how to kill the curse attached to an object without destroying the object. There had to be rituals, right? A spell or something? God what she wouldn't give to have access to Crafty's library right now...]

[The consideration of actually just killing Tim and being done with it crosses her mind, but she dismisses it immediately. Embarrassed, as though Tim could see her thoughts and know she thought of it at all. Besides, he would just come back if her own experiences with death were anything to go by. And he had people that needed him, according to the man himself.]

Why did you create it, then? You clearly don't want it to spread.

I didn't - I didn't make it.

[What's it he said to Sans, the day the skeleton's empty-socketed look drilled into him with cold precision, friendly in all respects but brittley, sickeningly incisive to its core?]

[Some people are just born broken.]

[He shoves the bottle back into his pocket with a jolt of his shoulders in a jerky shrug. His throat convulses in a swallow. She's too impossible to look at right now; he stares pointedly at the ground. Not that it helps.]

I was just...that's how it is. That's how it's always been.

[Gobbet stares hard at Tim. She has no concept of how uncomfortable it must be.]

If you didn't make it, if you just - what, were born with it? Then you're not the source. Curses are put upon things - people, in your case. You've gone all this time thinking you're the thing that needs to be destroyed, haven't you?

[She holds up a hand. Don't bother answering, she's getting the picture finally.]

Whatever cursed you, be it at birth or years later or whatever the case may be, will just curse something else if you're gone. That's how curses and curse-casters work. They kind of latch onto something and that something becomes a cursed object, but the cursed object can only spread the curse that was created for it. Until the one who did the actual cursing is gone, nothing is resolved.

[If she's being honest with herself, she's hoping this will be the end of Tim's guilt. Part of her believes that if he can take all that information in and to heart, he'll be just a tiny bit closer to wanting to live his life. Part of her knows how incredibly unlikely that is. But...she has to try, right? She has to explain what she knows in the hopes that he'll gain something from it.]

[It's sunk cost fallacy if nothing else.]

It's me, all right? It might not just be me, but right now, here, in this world? It's me.

[And there's - Brian too, maybe, but if Brian is involved, then that's...that'd be on him too, wouldn't it? Who else would be at fault there? No wonder Brian was so pissed. It really was his fault.]

[He was patient zero.]

I dunno how curses work in your world, but they don't necessarily...work the same in others. I don't even know if "curse" is the right word for it. It's just - it's me.

[That's the worst part of all of it.]

[What would he even be, without It?]

You want it to be you? 'Cause it sounds to me like you've ruled out every other possibility to give yourself a reason to be self-destructive.

[It doesn't have to be him. There are potential explanations. There are other options besides death. There has to be. There has to be.]

[And yes, it is indeed lost on Gobbet that she's doing exactly what she did last time.]

What would you do if you found out there was another way? Kill yourself just to make sure?

["If you don't do the right thing, and burn to death, come and find me."]
["I thought it was me, but you're the source."]
["Everyone is gone, because of YOU."]

[His eyes shut in a blink that looks both protracted and painful, like he's trying to shut away a bright flare of sunlight into his retinas.]

There's a lot more in context. [How he's able to speak so easily, so steadily, so levelly, is beyond him. Slow, patient, even.]

There's a lot more.

Of course there is.

[Gobbet sighs, lets her shoulders slump.]

[All this time she's spent on trying to weasel out the truth of the matter. Trying to figure out what it is that drives this man to want oblivion so badly. It's a waste of time, isn't it? He won't change. He doesn't want to. He's comfortable in his misery, it's safe for him there. Just like she's comfortable in her own shell, although hers is a lot less...bleak.]

[So he's cursed. Curses can be lifted. If it's the kind of curse she thinks it is, it won't end with him. It'll move on and consume another life. She's possibly cursed now. By principle of having met him, she's cursed, according to him.]

[She'll find a way to kill it herself, then, if it comes down to it.]

There's always going to be more to it, right? I'm an outsider in the equation, I can't possibly understand. My ideas will always be invalid because I don't have the whole story, right?

Well I think I get it, you know? You're scared and you want out. It's literally that simple. All this about ruining lives and being cursed - you just want out so that the weight of the fallout isn't on your shoulders. It'll migrate, Tim. It'll be someone else's problem when you're gone.

[Her tone remains flat and her expression neutral. She's calling it as she sees it, for better or worse.]

[He exhales at that one, a hoarse huff of breath that folds his arms across his chest, pulls his shoulders upwards. Dismissal, again. This is what it comes down to, right? You're just a stupid, crazy kid, making up stories. Why should any of us believe you?]

You'd better hope to god that you're still an outsider.

[There's no guarantee that she isn't. There's no fucking guarantee at all.]

You think I haven't tried to fix it? You think I don't know that?

[You think the weight of the fallout hasn't been laid across his shoulders since day fucking one, since he made the stupid, stupid choice to follow a line of inquiry that had him looking up a YouTube channel and staring, aghast, at a great long chain of events he couldn't remember?]

[Gobbet shakes her head in exasperation. She takes a deep breath, squares herself.]

How? How did you try to fix it?

I just wanted to - to help anyone, anyone, okay? Alex, you saw him, you -

[The man he killed. The man he slammed a knife into, puncturing his throat until it spouted red and left Tim gasping, retching, in the aftermath. The man who told him that was the only way - the only way to really, truly end it.]

I didn't want to do - I wanted to help. I wanted to help. He knew I was the source, and if we could've fought it together, maybe we could've -

[He pushes both hands up against his face, through his hair, trying to fight the shudder racing up his spine.]

He said it was the only way. If there was anyone left, I had to kill them.

And then myself.

[He's a killer. He knows that. She knows that. She's seen it.]

[He never wanted to.]

[This isn't her forte. This isn't...she's not good at this. It's sinking in how poorly she's doing at drawing out something inspiring, but she doesn't know how to fix it. How to do what she's trying to do.]

[So she just sticks to what she knows and hopes it works eventually.]

Have you ever considered he was wrong? He didn't exactly look like he was in a clear state of mind. He looked just as scared as you do right now.

What other explanation is there? It didn't happen until I met them. Until I met them all.

[You can even track it on the footage. The very first screen tear, mere hours after Alex filmed Tim's wavering audition for an as-of-then unnamed character. It can't just have been some coincidence. There was a reason Brian carried that tape around.]

[A reminder of who he was, maybe. Or a reminder of why he wouldn't rest until Tim paid for his sins.]

That's the point. There's not supposed to be a fallout. There's not supposed to be anything.

Wait, what didn't happen until you met who?

[What is she missing this time?]

Alex. None of it happened until I met Alex. Him, and the first - the first real friends I remember ever having. The first people I really let -

[A sound very much like a hastily-stifled sob bursts out from his throat, prompting him to pace back several steps, as if by shying away that might prevent him from saying what comes next.]

You think it was just him and me?

We were just the only two left.

None of it happened until - how the hell does that not make it Alex's fault? How is it not him who triggered this chain of events? If anything, it sounds like you were getting by just fine until he came along.

[There's. There's got to be some vital piece she's still missing.]

Because he didn't start seeing It until I met him. I've been seeing It my entire life, Gobbet, how else am I supposed -

["I thought it was me, but you're the source."]
[You're the source.]

I thought It wasn't real. I thought It wasn't fucking real. [He - ]

[Fuck.]

[He's going to cry. He knows he's about to. He can feel it in the way the words tremble, in the thickness in his throat, in the way he can't clip the sentences out properly, in the way he's trembling like the sun's already set. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Not now. Please. Not now.]

[Gobbet flinches as she realizes he's about to cry. There's that sinking feeling one gets when they realize they're about to see someone at their most vulnerable. It is both a burden and a privilege in her world.]

Look, my shack is over there. [She indicates a largely un-repaired shack with a hammock (lined with fresh snow) out front across the islet.] Come inside, have a hot drink, and tell me what "it" is. I'm getting closer to understanding, I think. And when I do, we're going to figure out what to do about this whole clusterfuck.

[And then...this.]

[It always happens like this. He starts to crumple, and then he's made of fragile, red-stained glass, needs to be handled with kid gloves, needs to be gently and carefully let down so he doesn't hurt anyone, so he doesn't start bawling like some fucking infant. If he could be grateful for anything, he could be grateful for that, with Jay; he never switched tacks in a way that was obvious, never felt the need to rush in and pat someone's ass for something that wasn't even really an accomplishment. His comfort was awkward and stumbling and imprecise and weird, but - ]

[Maybe that's why it felt almost genuine, in its own stilted, Jay way.]

[So wipe your nose, Tim, try and swallow it down like the pathetic, scared little boy you never really stopped being, and answer.]

I'm s - I've said...

[Words fail.]
[It's what they do.]

[Breathe, please. Breathe. Don't break down, please.]

Do you really wanna...do this? Right now? [There's an unspoken plea there, couched between the nervous upward dart of his eyes and the concave bow to his spine, the way he keeps trying to shrink down.]

[Do we really have to do this?]

[Her shoulders relax from a tension she didn't realize she'd built up. No, no they don't have to do this right now. She's not going anywhere and neither is he, she hopes.]

...Tell you what. My shack's over there. [She folds her arms across her chest, offers a sympathetic grin. Layering on the "embodiment of chill" act piece by piece.] Go inside, take a hot drink, and I won't follow you or ask you any more questions. I won't come in until you leave. Then, one day, after this bullshit with the sun is over with, you can tell me what I need to know. And I'll listen for real that time. That gives you a week without me bugging you to decide what you do and don't want to say.

For the record, this ain't pity. It's respect. Do we have a deal?

[A week where he's liable to be more preoccupied with fighting for his life than he is thinking about what the hell to say to her. A week to get his story straight. To figure out just what pieces of the story he's going to lay down without summoning too many questions.]

[It isn't liable to be much.]

[The back of one hand goes to the corner of one eye. Pressing, pressing, as if by applying that weight, he might force it all back.]

I'll...I think I need to pass right now.

[For all that she's not like Jay, sometimes he can be grateful for that fact; for how she won't push him for answers at his most vulnerable, because he's more likely to yield.]

But, uh - I wanna...yeah.

We can talk. After this is over.

Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

cw internalized ableism

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cw: suicide mention

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Probably wrapped unless you have more to add?